Ramage and the Freebooters

CHAPTER TWELVE

With Barbados only a few score miles to the westward, Ramage sat on the aftermost starboard carronade—his favourite spot since it was sheltered from the scorching sun by a small awning—and reflected how few days had passed since Southwick had persuaded him to deal with the problem of Bowen.

The voyage was nearly over; Bowen may or may not be cured permanently but certainly had not touched a drink for more than a week. He could now watch others drinking without becoming soaked with perspiration as he silently fought himself to avoid reaching for a glass.

The tropics—still the words gave Ramage pleasure. But now, approaching the islands which stretched in a chain shaped like a new moon from the South American coast at the east end of the Spanish Main to Florida, he knew the lives of the men in the Triton would probably depend more on Bowen's skill than his own.

Dozens of islands ranging from Cuba in the norm, six hundred miles long, to barren rocks barely a mile wide. But all of them islands containing great extremes: great beauty and great ugliness; much peace and much violence; much pleasure and much pestilence.

One week the heat and humidity would be tempered by the fresh Trade winds into a blissful climate; another, when the wind dropped, would be damp and unbearably hot, draining every man's energy, mildewing his clothes, sapping his spirit.

A perfectly fit and strong man could admire the frangipani, its delicate white blossom with gold centres flowering on leafless trees clinging precariously to a cliff face; he could stare at the almost unbelievably beautiful flamboyant tree covered in brilliant scarlet blossom, an enormous ball of flame. And that night the man could be struck down with some disease like the black vomit, which within twenty-four hours, would leave him dying with insects crawling wherever life oozed from his body.

Islands where moderation did not exist.

The first day of the rainy season came—and almost overnight the sun-scorched brown hills turned green with tiny shoots sprouting like down on a boy's face. The sun nourished the plants so they grew fast and then, as they flowered, scorched them to death, and while the sun and rain rotted the remains the ants, scorpions, lizards and great buzzing swarms of flies hunted and feasted...

The trunk of a fallen tree apparently solid—until you touch it and it crumbled to powder, riddled with termites ...

And beside the rotting piles there'd be scatterings of poinsettia—the Spanish Flor de Pascuas, the Italian Stella di Natale, the Flower of Christmas—growing wild and profuse, each slender stem topped by petals hanging down like leaves in a brilliant red star.

The dull green of the lignum vitae tree, the wood of which was so heavy it sank in water but whose tiny, gentle blue blossoms, no bigger than a small button, gave no hint of its enormous strength. And the chenille plant whose native name, Red Hot Cat Tail, aptly described its flower.

He remembered the pelicans, broad-winged and cumbersome, with long beaks and pendulous sacks beneath, standing on a coral reef like a group of wizened sagging-jowled old men gossiping of politics and bygone days. It was such an effort for them to get into the air but, once flying they did it lazily, almost without effort. Yet when their little button eyes spotted a fish they flopped down to catch it in such a clumpy dive it seemed that flying had suddenly exhausted all their strength.

And, for comparison, the little white egret, smaller, more graceful than the European heron, high-stepping on deep, stinking mud at the edge of a mangrove swamp with all the delicacy of a little princess entering a ballroom knowing she was watched by ten score guests.

The osprey hovering on an air current in the lee of a hill and swooping on to some unwary fish in a lagoon below almost faster than the eye could follow—and gaudy parrots squawking raucously in the jungle. Tiny humming birds, like large bees; mocking birds whose shrill whistles were like human beings signalling to each other.

Memories tumbled over each other, none blurred by time. Amaryllis with its trumpet-shaped flowers; the long, silver barracuda streaking through the sea, face as ugly as a pike's, teeth sharper than razors; sharks with blue-grey backs and white bellies, scavenging, the vultures of the sea. Papaya trees with their delicious soft orange-centred fruit growing in dusters at the top of the trunks. Tamarind with hard, coloured seeds which the natives strung together into bead necklaces. The aptly and tragically-named Belle of the Night, whose buds opened as night fell to reveal white petals and a golden centre (to those with lanterns who cared to look, or who admired in the moonlight) and which closed as the sun rose, never to open again.

The coral reefs waiting to rip out a ship's bottom, but swarming with fish so gaily coloured in such strange patterns they might have been created by an inspired artist in the last stages of a drunken frenzy. Long sandy beaches backed by many types of palm trees.

And at the back of the beaches, neat holes, the homes of land crabs which the natives caught at night, luring them with flaming torches.

Everywhere among the islands mosquitoes, whining and biting, leaving smudges of blood when you slapped them on your flesh. In the rainy season they were reinforced by sand-flies, almost too small to see but which waited for the sun to dip towards the horizon before emerging to bite with the sharpness of needles, leaving angry, itching weals.

Shiny black scorpions, smaller than one had expected. Centipedes, lurking under stones and twigs, or hiding in the beams of a roof or ceiling and dropping on your arm to give you a bite which swelled like a Scotsman's haggis.

Long-tailed, impertinent blackbirds, bigger than those in Europe, strutting around like young midshipmen on a flagship's quarterdeck, lacking only a telescope tucked under a wing.

Clothing mildewed, rotted and decayed; iron rusted and flaked until nothing was left but a dull red stain. Nothing moved, yet nothing stood still. Like jagged rocks in a pool, the Windward Islands stood four-square at the southern end of the Caribbean. On them men built houses and hurricanes blew them down. Coral reefs grew, then the coral died and the seas smashed it, hurling the pieces upon the beach where, along with sea shells, the waves pounded and ground it into gleaming sand.

In the jungles trees died and fell to give life to termites; animals died, but their bodies gave life to beetles and maggots; sailors died—and, Ramage thought bitterly, gave life to clerks rilling in forms at the Navy Board.

Southwick came up from below, where he had been working out his noon sight and, squinting in the bright sunlight, reported: 'We should sight Ragged Point before noon tomorrow, if this wind holds.'

'How much before noon?'

'Between ten and noon.'

'Hmm...'

Knowing the captain was thinking of the risk of running on to the island in the darkness, Southwick said: 'I don't think we need heave-to tonight, sir. I'm reasonably certain, and there's been no north-going current for the past five days.'

Every captain—and master too—making the Atlantic crossing had one fear about making his landfall: that he'd be a few miles ahead of his reckoning so that in the darkness the ship would run up on the low-lying, rocky and wave-beaten east coast of Barbados. If you were too far north or south you could pass it in the night and, if to the south, run on to the rocks (some forty feet high and barely twenty wide) and tiny islands of the Grenadines beyond.

Well, Ramage knew Southwick was a good navigator but at this stage in the voyage all captains and all masters tried to outdo each other in showing confidence, yet most of them —the conscientious ones, anyway—always had a nagging doubt.

An error in me quadrant, in the chronometer, an unexpected current during the night between sights... All could land you on the beach at Barbados, where even in a calm day the swell waves thundered their way through outlying reefs and sent a fine spray drifting inland for several hundred yards, an almost invisible mist.

The lighthouse—one could never trust that a light had been lit; and even then couldn't be sure it wasn't put up by a wrecker in a position where it'd lead you on to rocks. More fortunes than anyone liked to admit had been made by wreckers in these islands; in Barbados alone two or three of the leading families were reputed to have a hand in it.

Soon after dawn next morning it seemed to Ramage every man in the ship was rubbing, scrubbing, polishing or painting. His own steward could hardly wait to get him out of the cabin to start pressing clothes which, for the previous three or four days had been hung up to air.

Seamen were busy with cloths and brickdust, rubbing vigorously to give all the brasswork an extra shine. The decks had already been holystoned and washed down.

The gunner's mate and a couple of men were methodically wiping over each carronade with oily cloths. Two days ago they'd gone round with a bucket of blacking—a mysterious mixture of vinegar and lamp black—painting it on spots where rust marks had been removed, and repainting all the shot in the racks.

There was still a strong smell about the ship: for the past two days the men had been painting the standing rigging with a mixture of Stockholm tar, coal tar and salt water which had been heated up in a fish kettle (and as they wielded their brushes Southwick danced around below, cursing them for spilling drops, despite the old awnings spread over the deck which had been liberally sprinkled with sand as an added precaution).

At the bow three men were putting the finishing touches to the Triton's figurehead. The wooden replica of the son of Poseidon and Amphitrite was small and well-carved and his head was bent forward slightly, as if supporting the bowsprit. His fish's tail twisted down the stem and the outline of each scale was picked out in gold leaf. The face was—as Southwick commented many weeks ago—friendly enough for one o' those Greek chaps' but the triton shell which by tradition he held in his hand had been broken off at some time and replaced with one carved from green wood which the hot sun had now split.

And it was going to cost Ramage a guinea before long (in addition to the price of the gold leaf, which had to come out of his own pocket since the Admiralty issued only small quantities of yellow paint for ornamental work). Ramage had idly commented to Southwick that the spiral-shaped triton shell actually existed in the West Indies and to Ramage's surprise the old Master had become quite interested, having previously thought that, like Triton himself, it was a stylized object.

Anyway, it seemed that Southwick had told the master's mate, who'd told a quartermaster. Soon a request had come back from the ship's company: if they found a real triton shell could they use it to replace the wooden one?

This, Ramage realized in retrospect, was one of the first solid indications that not only had the original ship's company and the former Kathleens become firmly knitted together, but they'd developed a pride in their ship. And pride in a ship, he knew only too well from past experience, meant a happy ship. So he'd agreed, offering a guinea to the man who found a shell of the right size to fit into Triton's hand.

The men had been delighted—a guinea was within a shilling or two of a month's pay for most of them; but Ramage knew whoever found such a shell would have earned it—the wooden one was a foot long, and the shells were rarely more than eight or nine inches. He also knew that the man who found it would be the proudest in the ship ...

Occasionally Southwick, his white hair flying in the wind, stumped up to the bow to watch the gilders at work. It was a fiddling but fascinating job, and Ramage too had watched them begin. After cleaning up the whole carving and scrubbing it with fresh water and soap to remove salt and dirt, they'll let it dry, one of them watching in case spray deposited more salt on it. They'd then carefully covered it with canvas for the night and next morning were badgering the bosun's mate for a tin of yellow paint, wanting to pour off some of the thick oil on top to use as size.

Leaving the oil to stand in a pot, they'd painted the figurehead with the appropriate colours, and when they were dry, brushed on the size where the gold leaf was to be applied, and left it until it was almost dry.

By that time they'd managed to wheedle a chamois leather from Southwick and sewn it into a small, fiat pad. Once again, with all the enthusiasm of schoolboys, they'd gone back to the bow, secured ropes round their waists in case they fell, and despite the pitching and rolling, with the sea bubbling and spouting only a few feet below them, managed to transfer the gold leaf piece by piece from the book in which it was kept to the chamois leather pad.

One man had obviously worked as a gilder because each time he had, with a quick twist of the wrist, pressed the pad precisely against the place where the leaf was to be applied, so the leaf stuck to the size. Since each leaf was about two inches long and one inch wide, and so light that a gentle puff was enough to blow it three or four feet, Ramage was glad to hear they'd lost only three leaves in sudden gusts of wind.

Just after nine o'clock the foremast lookout's hail of 'Deck there!' stopped every man within hearing, and was followed by 'Land ho! From two points on the starboard bow to one point to larboard, sir!'

'You wall-eyed monkey,' Southwick shouted, 'why didn't you sight it sooner? And how far?'

' 'Bout seven miles, Lot o' haze ahead, sir,' came the cheerful reply. 'Must have lifted suddenly.'

Southwick glanced at Ramage. It was a good enough reason: the sun had heat in it now and haze over land in the early morning was not unusual, lifting as soon as the land heated up.

Ramage couldn't resist saying, 'Bit ahead of your reckoning, eh Mr Southwick? Between ten and noon I thought you said. Or was it nine and noon?'

'Ten, sir,' Southwick said ruefully. 'Still, that's------'

Seeing the Master was taking him seriously, Ramage interrupted: 'But for the haze, it'd have been seven-thirty.'

'But sir, after logging more than 2,900 miles ...'

Ramage laughed. 'Well, it's a long way from Spithead, anyway!'

*

From being a long purplish bruise low on the horizon the east side of the island gradually took on a definite shape and slowly changed colour as the Triton dosed the distance, turning a few degrees to larboard to head for South Point with ft stiff breeze hustling her along at better than eight knots.

The purple gave way to a light brown as the contours of the hills slowly emerged, showing shallow valleys between them; then with the brig drawing nearer and the sun rising higher the brown became green; the rich and fertile green of land well-fanned, the large fields of different crops showing like a chess board.

The land was lower than Bowen had expected: instead of a high rocky island capped with tall palm trees and standing four-square against the full force of the Atlantic swell with high overhanging cliffs—for there was nothing between it and Africa more than 3,000 miles to the east—it was low with rolling land behind it; more like the Sussex coast As he commented on it to Southwick, the Master grunted.

'Barbados always disappoints people new to the Tropics: I always say that from seaward it looks like the east end of the Isle of Wight. But wait until you see the rest of the islands: Grenada, St Lucia, Martinique—they're just what you expect: mountainous thick jungle ... deep bays and beaches and thousands of palm trees... But for all that, give me Barbados: most civilized of 'em all, except for Jamaica.'

Nevertheless, as the Triton approached, Bowen admitted the island was a beautiful sight: the deep blue of the sea stretched to within a hundred yards of the shore and then, merging into pale, sparkling green as it swept over coral reefs and outlying shoals, it broke in a narrow ribbon of white foam on a strip of silver sand. Beyond were green, gently-sloping fields but very few trees, all of which seemed to be small pines, leaning over at an angle to the left.

'The wind,' Southwick explained laconically. 'Always blowing from the eastwards—makes 'em grow like that. Ah—there are some palms for you.'

Bowen took the proffered telescope and low down, just at the back of the beach, were a few dumps of palm trees, the only ones for a couple of miles either way. He gave the telescope back to Southwick, who sensed his disappointment.

'Plenty more in the lee of South Point—the headland over there. We round it and the next one and anchor beyond in Carlisle Bay. The windward sides of all these islands are barren. Nothing between them and Africa. The lee sides usually have plenty of jungle—completely sheltered, and of course there's a lot of rain.'

'What are those brown patches scattered where the water's bright green?'

'Coral heads. Living coral. Usually only a few feet of water over them. They'd rip the bottom out of a ship. The pale green water usually shows there's a sandy bottom.'

Bowen remarked on several windmills along the coast, identical in shape to those in England.

'Use 'em for the sugar cane,' Southwick explained. 'Instead of having circular grindstones like you use for grain, they use rollers. The sugar cane—it looks like great stalks of wheat, eight feet high and more, and nearly as thick as your wrist— is run between the rollers which squeeze out the juice. It runs off into a lead-lined sink and into vats, where it's boiled.'

'Then what happens to it?'

'Shipped to England in casks. The most stinking cargo there is, too: never go passenger in a ship carrying molasses...'

The Triton passed South Point and soon the crescent-shaped Carlisle Bay came into sight, with Bridgetown sprawled comfortably along the western side. Ramage saw at anchor the Admiral's flagship, the 98-gun Prince of Wales. The Triton's pendant numbers were already hoisted and men were standing by at all her carronades, which were loaded with blank charges ready to fire a seventeen-gun salute.

The gunner's mate was by the foremast ready for Ramage's signal to begin firing while powder boys stood by with extra charges ready to re-load seven of the guns to complete the salute.

There were only two frigates and some squat, ugly transports at anchor near the flagship while a small schooner approached from the west, still hull down over the horizon, her sails showing like tiny visiting cards.

The news of the Triton's arrival must have reached the flagship an hour or so earlier, signalled along the coast, and everyone on board—as well as dozens of people living on shore—would be waiting anxiously for any mail and newspapers she might have brought out.

Ramage signalled to the gunner's mate who bellowed:

'Number one gun—fire!'

Even as the gun leapt back in recoil on the starboard side, the explosion echoing across the bay and the smoke blowing forward, the gunner's mate had begun the chant which en sured each gun fired at the right interval, muttering all but the last four words to himself:

'If I wasn't a gunner I wouldn't be here—Number two gun fire!'

The first gun on the larboard side leapt back in recoil, the crew at once beginning the routine of re-loading.

'If I wasn't a gunner I wouldn't be here—Number three gun fire!'

As the guns fired one after the other Ramage realized Southwick was also totting up the number of rounds—it wasn't unknown for a gunner or his mate to miscount.

Fifteen... sixteen... the smoke was drifting back to the quarterdeck, catching in everyone's throat... seventeen. The gunner's mate was moving aft, the men began sponging the guns before securing them.

Even as the first boom of the flagship's reply echoed across the water she hoisted several signals. Southwick glanced at the first with his telescope, groaned and said contemptuously:

'He's one of those... I was afraid o' that.'

Even before Jackson started reading out the signals Ramage guessed the first one would say where the brig was to anchor, but if the Admiral was a fussy man...

'Captain to come to the Admiral, sir.'

'Sick to be sent to the hospital ship, sir...'

'Damn and blast it, make a note of them!' Ramage snapped at the American. 'Just tell me any more that affect us anchoring.'

He bent over the binnacle, watching the bearing of the flagship. Men were standing by at sheets and braces; topmen were at the foot of the shrouds ready to swarm up and out on the yards, to furl the sails. The fo'c'slemen were awaiting the orders that would let the anchor splash into the sea and send the cable racing out through the hawse so fast the smell of scorching would come aft to the quarterdeck.

In his cabin two leather pouches and his newest uniform awaited Ramage. The smaller pouch, which had a lead weight in it so if thrown overboard it would sink immediately (a reminder they might have been captured on the voyage from England), contained the secret letter from the First Lord to Admiral Robinson. The larger one held all the prosaic paperwork the Admiral would require—the Triton's log; 'weekly accounts' describing her condition; Sick Book, listing all the men who had been ill during the voyage and the treatment given; returns from the bosun's, gunner's and carpenter's mates; a list of remaining provisions; several reports of surveys signed by himself and Southwick—on a leakage of beer from several badly-made barrels, on various casks of salt beef and pork, each of which contained fewer pieces of meat than was painted on the outside, and on a sail too ripe for further repairs. And, most important of all, there was Ramage's report on the capture of La Merlette, together with all the relevant documents—and they were many.

Yet, Ramage thought sourly, within ten minutes of being on board the Prince of Wales the Admiral's wretched secretary would triumphantly announce that Ramage, his clerk and Southwick had forgotten some tedious and unimportant form...

The brig was within a hundred yards of where she was to anchor. Ramage only hoped the men remembered his signals and was pleased the Admiral had chosen a spot so near the flagship. The Triton was—if all went according to plan!— about to furl all sail, anchor and hoist out a boat without one word being spoken: everything would be done by signals from Ramage.

He made the first signals with his right arm. In a few moments it seemed that every man in the ship was either hauling a rope or climbing the rigging. The yards were hauled round, the bellying sails flattened and then fluttered; men swarmed out on the yards to furl the sails neatly, securing them with gaskets.

Even as that was happening Ramage was signalling to the quartermaster and the brig turned to head right into the wind's eye, gradually slowing as she did so. The sound of water sluicing away from the stem, rushing along her sides and gurgling under the counter, which had been part of their lives for so many weeks, died away, leaving a silence which was unsettling.

Slowly the Triton lost way. Southwick, watching over the taffrail, lifted his hand as she began to drift astern and Ramage signalled to the men on the fo'c'sle. A moment later a splash told him the anchor had been let go; then he saw the cable snaking out through the hawse, tell-tale whisps of blue smoke vanishing in the wind.

From where he was standing Ramage could see the compass without moving. He checked the bearing from the flagship: by the time the Triton drifted astern to the full scope of her cable she'd be in the correct position. And Southwick was already signalling to more men, making sure that all the yards were square—not an inch lower either end, precisely horizontal, all at right angles to the masts. The boat would be hoisted out within a couple of minutes. Ramage looked at Southwick and pointed below, indicating he was going to change. A man may have sworn under his breath, he thought, otherwise not a word had been spoken. But probably the Admiral had been asleep ...

But the Admiral had not been asleep: as Ramage, hot and sticky in full uniform, reported to him in the great cabin of the Prince of Wales, he was greeted with a breezy, 'Like to see a ship well handled, m'lad!' and an outstretched hand which shook his with a firm grasp.

Admiral Robinson's appearance and manner belied the impression given by the string of signals which greeted the Triton. Tall, almost plump (he had the figure of a man who once had been a great athlete but now the muscle had turned to fat) he would have passed for Southwick's younger brother —his face was round, almost cherubic, pleasant and open. His nose was larger, and its redness owed more to claret than the hot sun; the eyes were alert and clear blue; his blond hair was bleached by the sun into a pale yellow which blended with the streaks of white.

After asking what son of voyage Ramage had had, nodding approvingly when told about the capture of La Merlette, and inquiring after the health of Ramage's parents (hinting, Ramage wondered, that he had no animosity towards the Earl?), he said: 'I wasn't expecting you, m'lad: I asked the Admiralty for five more frigates!'

'I don't know about the frigates, sir; I've brought letters from Lord Spencer.'

He fished in his pocket for the key, which was completely embedded in a large piece of red wax, with the Admiralty seal on both sides. He gave both key and the small locked pouch to the Admiral, who called for his secretary, handed him the lump of wax and said curtly: 'Break out the key—not in here, I don't want chips of wax over everything.'

'You were lucky with La Merlette,' he commented as the secretary left the cabin and, to Ramage's surprise because he'd forgotten the point, continued: 'You were sailing under Admiralty orders, so naturally I don't qualify for a share in the prize money. The thieving old Commander-in-Chief doesn't take his eighth—more's the pity as far as I'm concerned. But if she's as sound as you say I'll buy her in—I need all the small vessels I can get my hands on.

'Being Commander-in-Chief on this station's like trying to run a post-chaise service—never enough coaches or horses and too many passengers all wanting to go in different directions at the same moment. Ah, Fanshaw, the magic key—thank you.'

As he unlocked the pouch Ramage rose to leave him alone to read the letters, but the Admiral glanced up and shook his head.

'Make yourself comfortable, m'dear fellah. A drink? Tell Fanshaw what you want—just excuse me a moment.'

Lifting his spectacles, which had been hanging round his neck on a piece of ribbon, he adjusted them and broke the seal on the first of the letters.

Ramage shook his head at Fanshaw, declining a drink, and watched the Admiral's face. Not a muscle moved as he turned the page and read OIL, then read the whole letter a second time. But there was no doubt that the first letter was the vital one.

'Bad business, Ramage. You know what this is all about'— he waved the letter—'and his Lordship says you can answer any questions. Tell me, are the Jacobins at the back of it? The Irish? Those damned corresponding societies? Or all three?'

'None, sir, as far as I could see. I think the men simply feel mutiny is the only way to get what they want. At least that was certainly the case in the Triton.' 'What, they mutinied as well? His Lordship says'—he waved the letter again—'there's no sign of the mutiny ending. It hasn't ended has it?'

'It hadn't when we sailed. Yes, the Tritons had mutinied.'

'How did you get under way from Spithead, then?'

The Admiral asked the questions swiftly: he was obviously a man who thought, spoke and acted quickly: his voice had a decisiveness about it that Ramage liked. Although his eyes rarely moved, they were sharp. Ramage realized he was a man who did not make any unnecessary movement—apart from waving the letter.

'We were anchored in a strong wind with a shoal to leeward and it was high water, sir. When they refused to weigh I— well, I cut the cable with an axe and ordered 'em to make sail. They didn't have much choice: we'd have gone up on the shoal in three or four minutes ...'

The Admiral's expression did not change but his eyes narrowed. 'That's all there was to it?'

'In getting under way, yes. But luckily some men just transferred to the Triton and who'd served with me before discovered------' He stopped just in time: in another moment he'd have revealed the whole plot: a plot not mentioned in the log, nor in his journal...

'Discovered what?'

'Discovered that mutiny was pointless,' Ramage said lamely.

The Admiral smiled. 'It all sounds an interesting yarn: you'd better come to dinner and tell me more about it. I have a house just by the jetty. We dine early—four o'clock, in an hour's time. As you're now to serve on this station I'll give you your orders at the same time because you'll be under way again as soon as La Merlette comes in with the rest of your men.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

'You don't seem very disappointed, Ramage. Most officers just arrived from England could find fifty reasons why they wouldn't be able to sail again inside of three weeks.'

'Social------' he just managed to stop a tactless remark, but the Admiral completed the sentence.

'Social life on shore doesn't interest you?'

Ramage reddened. 'In one sense, no sir.'

The Admiral laughed. 'But you're prepared to put up with the invitations of flag officers and commanders-in-chief, eh?'

There was no point in wriggling and the Admiral was taking it in good part, so Ramage laughed.

'Yes, sir. But I've also a good ship and a good crew, and now I know what they're like on a long passage I'd like to try 'em on different fare.'

'Different fare it'll be, I promise you that,' the Admiral said and his tone was suddenly serious. 'But hurry along now or you'll be late for dinner. If you've mail on board, tell my secretary and he'll send a boat over to collect it. You've no need to water and provision: you won't be going far. And try to remember everything about London fashions—the women'll be all agog !'

*

As soon as the three wives had withdrawn, the Admiral looked up at Ramage and said: 'Your written orders will be prepared in the morning, but I want to run over the gist of them now so you can ask questions. Both Captain Chubb and Captain Dace had precisely the same orders very recently, so you can have the benefit of their experience.'

Both Captains looked embarrassed, but since the tone of the Admiral's voice had not changed, Ramage thought for a moment it was a natural modesty, then realized they must have failed to carry out the orders.

'Grenada had a violent insurrection a couple of years or so ago—do you know much about it?'

Ramage shook his head: he remembered some references in a newspaper but that was all.

'Well, you'll find out all about it when you get there, but briefly a man called Fedon led a revolt that all but threw us out of the island. Backed by the French, of course, and dozens of innocent people--planters and the like—were murdered. We landed more troops and the revolt was put down. Now the island is quiet again and trying to recover. Any questions so far?'

'Is there a chance of another revolt, sir?'

'No. But that's not to say there aren't people in the island who'd like to see the French take over; just that they don't amount to anything.

'Very well, Ramage, now for your part. Grenada is a rich island—mostly from sugar, molasses, rum, cotton, cocoa, and some coffee—but not very big. They don't import much, which means of course that merchantmen from England don't call there very often. Instead, the island schooners carry the produce up to Martinique, where it's transhipped.'

Ramage nodded, but so far he couldn't see where the Triton came into it.

'About four schooners a week sail from Grenada for islands to the north and at least two are bound for Martinique with cargoes for transhipment to England. The rest are carrying out local trade and don't go farther than St Vincent, Can you guess your orders yet?'

Managing to hide his surprise at the sudden question, Ramage thought quickly. Had there been a slight emphasis on the word sail in the phrase 'sail from Grenada'? And the Admiral was obviously concerned with those bound for Martinique. It was worth a try.

'The schooners for Martinique sail, but they don't always arrive, sir?'

The Admiral glanced at Chubb and Dace, then looked straight at Ramage. 'Was that a guess, reasoning, or do you already know something about this?'

'Half-way between a guess and reasonings sir.'

'Well, that's what happens. They sail from Grenada and some never arrive at Martinique, which is only about 160 miles away. And all the islands they pass are held by us. The Grenadines—lumps of rock: not even a rowing boat could hide among them. Then Bequia—the Army has a small garrison there. St Vincent and St Lucia both with plenty of troops. The longest stretch of open water is from St Lucia to Martinique, and that's only twenty miles or so. But for all that, some of the schooners just vanish.'

'Could it be treachery by the skippers, sir?'

'No, we thought of that. The skippers are local men; they've everything to lose. They and the schooners really do vanish; we've never found a trace of man or vessel that's failed to reach Martinique. Nor do the schooners ever turn up later flying the Tricolour. Very well, that's about all we know. Your job is to go to Grenada, find out what happens and put an end to it.'

'May I ask what measures have been used up to now, sir?'

'Tell him,' the Admiral instructed the two captains.

Both glanced at each other. Dace cleared his throat and, without looking at Ramage, said in a monotone:

'There aren't enough escorts—none in fact—so convoys can't be sailed, and anyway even if they could the freight rate's so high now the schooners prefer to make a dash for it. They reckon they can make three round voyages—if they don't get caught—in the time it'd take a convoy to get there and back;

particularly since it takes twice as long to unload ten ships arriving all at once in a convey than it does ten ships arriving singly at regular intervals------'

'He knows that!' the Admiral interrupted impatiently.

'—well, Captain Chubb and myself started patrols between Martinique and Grenada. He took the windward side of the islands and I the leeward side. We did that for two months. We saw nothing.'

'The schooners were still captured?'

'Yes,' Dace said uncomfortably, glancing at the Admiral.

'Did any of them take the windward side or all of them keep to the leeward, sir?'

Dace again looked embarrassed and from the way the Admiral glanced up Ramage guessed the idea hadn't occurred to any of them. What he intended as an innocent question now left an admiral and two captains looking foolish.

'Would it have made any difference do you think?' the Admiral demanded.

Dace shook his head. 'And I doubt if they'd try: they'd have a long beat to the eastward to dear St Vincent and St Lucia. They're an independent crowd, the schooner-owners.'

Ramage asked: 'Is there any point on the route which it's known the schooners always pass safely?'

Chubb nodded. 'They pass Bequia. Beyond that we're not sure. Perhaps St Vincent, but it's usually dark by then.'

'But the local traders to St Vincent—are they ever captured?'

'No.'

'What was the result of sailing them from St George at different times?'

Dace answered. "None, because they have to spend a night at sea whatever time they leave St George's------'

'Damn it man!' the Admiral exclaimed. 'How many times do I have to say it. The capital of Grenada is St George. It's clear enough on the chart. Why do you people insist on calling it St George's. St George's what? It's named after the saint, it doesn't belong to him!'

'I beg your pardon, sir. Well, we've tried sailing them at dawn, noon, dusk and the middle of the night. Didn't make any difference.'

Ramage decided he'd find out more when he reached St George: neither captain could tell him much and he was merely stirring up a lot of resentment by asking questions the answers of which could only emphasize that a lieutenant with a brig was now being given orders for an operation which two post captains commanding frigates had failed to carry out 'Well, there you are Ramage,' the Admiral said, and Ramage had an uneasy feeling he had read his thoughts. 'We'll join the ladies: they'll want to hear news of the latest fashions in London—and the gossip.'